And between the reeds, a fragile vibrant fire burns of glass, tongues of scarlet, vermilion thrusting in a cloud, upward to the stars.

They're lovely. Really, the marble glowing subtly, and the bronze, deep, strong people, shapes, an impossible titanium tree. Immortal, almost. They will be so for centuries.

And the callas, the moss, the squirrels, they are lovely too, and unique. But the chipmunk will fall prey to foxes, trucks, or snow, that exquisite murderer. The plants will wilt and wither, flowers fading in the dappled shade. Art is ever. Life, in all its glory, is here and now.

But though the fire of Chihuly's hands will thrive through rain, the dancer will through blizzards hold her grace, they will not know the sunrise. Through their game of eternal chess the players will never taste the wind or hear the buds of daffodils stretching, yawning to life.

Sculptures are safe, sophisticated, set in solemn stone. Life is wild, careening unpredictable through the centuries. But though the art is proud and permanent, though never will it die, neither will they live.